


All Proper and Discreet

by EmmaDeMarais



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaDeMarais/pseuds/EmmaDeMarais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' father is alerted to his son's troubles in New York via an unusual messenger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Proper and Discreet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aaronlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaronlisa/gifts).



> Spoilers for all of Season 1. Thanks to my betas.

A quiet clearing of the throat and a whispered, "Lord Holmes?" was more than enough to cause the individual with that particular name to lower his evening paper and proffer his attention to the gentleman's club staff member who'd approached him.

"Yes, Fredericks?"

"Terribly sorry to disturb you, my lord, however there's someone here who claims they must speak with you urgently. It's a woman – an American. I have made her aware of the club's policy concerning women, yet she refuses to leave without an audience." Lowering his voice further, the man's eyes darted back and forth as if concerned about being overheard. "It concerns your son Sherlock. She claims he's in grave circumstances."

Lord Holmes let out a tiny noise of displeasure as he rose and folded his paper.

"And I was so looking forward to a quiet evening..."

He followed as Fredericks led him to the foyer of the club where an attractive woman with chestnut hair pinned back in an elegant chignon awaited. Lord Holmes assessed the woman in the short time it took to walk down the final stairs to the lobby level. Her bearing and attire seemed congruent with an American upbringing, although both spoke of being raised wealthy. The slightly too high heels and the slightly too low neckline of her silk blouse were as much signals to his eye as the overabundance of makeup, copious amounts of gold jewellery littered with diamonds plus the conspicuous designer purse. Women in the British upper classes tended to show rather a bit more restraint.

"Lord Holmes..." The woman extended her manicured hand as he approached and shook his with a firm almost masculine grip – another distasteful custom he'd discovered from meeting other American women. "I wouldn't have bothered you here if I thought there was time..."

"And I have the pleasure of meeting?" he inquired, manners keeping his annoyance in check.

"Oh! My apologies for not introducing myself up front," the woman flushed slightly in embarrassment, "I'm just so..." She made a vague gesture that implied a state of agitation then took a deep breath, straightened herself up and met his gaze with one of self-confidence tempered with worry. "My name is Patricia Sloane – of the Long Island Sloane branch of the Vanderbilt family – and I've been a friend of your son Sherlock since before he moved to New York."

"How do you do, Miss Sloane. I'm afraid..."

"Your son could die!" The woman's sudden terse whisper released a wellspring of anxiety barely held back as her eyes welled up, her polished surface cracking as Lord Holmes fought the urge to recoil in discomfort at the show of emotion. "I just got a call from a mutual friend in New York. Sherlock's overdosed. He needs to be put into rehab before it's too late!" She removed a business card from her purse and pressed it into his hand. "There's a place called Hemdale. Arrange for him to be sent there immediately. It's all proper and discreet, as I'm sure you require, but it also works. I know people whose lives were saved by the doctors there. If you love your son and even if you don't, please..."

She grasped his hand with both of hers, pleading.

"Miss Sloane..."

"Please, don't let him die. The address where he's staying now is on the back. Don't wait for the morning. It might be too late."

With a final squeeze of his hand she turned on her heel and all but fled from the building, entering into the back seat of a parked limousine out front where the driver had been waiting.

Staring after her for a moment, Lord Holmes almost failed to register the near silent footfall of Fredericks approaching.

"May I be of assistance?" When Lord Holmes caught sight of the silver tray in the man's hand he knew what the crystal tumbler contained. "I felt perhaps you might wish for your usual – the Glenlivet?"

"Quite so," Lord Holmes pocketed the business card in his hand, accepted the glass and took an appreciative sip. "Thank you, Fredericks. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to make a call."

"Of course." Fredericks nodded his acknowledgment and departed with the empty tray.

One more sip led Lord Holmes to discover he had indeed been somewhat rattled by the woman's warning. He'd known of his youngest son's affliction, yet written it off as boyhood indiscretion, trusting in the Holmes intellect to eventually arrest such nonsense. Rational thinking always prevailed in the end.

Withdrawing his mobile phone from the pocket of his bespoke suit, he speed-dialed and waited for a response.

"Simmons."

"Simmons, it's Holmes."

"Holmes, old boy! How long has it been?"

Lord Holmes glanced at his tumbler of scotch, but deigned to drink while engaged on the telephone.

"I'm afraid it's not a social call. I need to know who our man in New York is these days and if he can be trusted."

"Randolph still handles our affairs in city. Good man. Discreet and efficient." Simmons paused for a brief second. "Is a legal concern? Will you be needing the firm's services?"

"No, no. Just a small inconvenience," he brushed it off even as he set the tumbler down to withdraw the Hemdale business card. "But one I wish to keep quiet."

*

More than a few appreciative glances followed her through the hotel lobby, yet her purposeful stride ensured none approached. Once finally ensconced in her luxury suite, door double locked, her graceful hands carefully let long chestnut locks fall free, laying the hairpins out on her vanity table with the precision of a surgeon's instruments.

She had no doubt that she had succeeded in the evening's errand. Sherlock Holmes would survive and emerge from rehabilitation with his cunning mind clear and ready to take on the criminal element once more.

With a sweep of a practiced hand the chestnut wig was removed, revealing blonde beneath.

She brushed the wig with proper care to prepare it for storage; she might need it again. She'd not decided if it would be more enjoyable to approach Holmes Senior as a new character or reuse the Sloane backstory. After all, once Sherlock completed his stint at rehab, she'd need to convince daddy dearest to hire a sober companion for his son.

All in due time and now it was time to head back to New York to make some discreet inquiries in order to finalize her choice. At the moment the frontrunner was a former doctor named Joan Watson.

He had to be fully restored to the top of his game, no crutches, no excuses.

Because if Sherlock Holmes was to be destroyed, it would be when she decided and only by her hand.


End file.
